


Captain Stark

by AvocadoLove



Series: Captain Stark/Iron Steve [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Gen, Role Reversal, Switching, Tony Stark is Captain America, eventual Steve/Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AvocadoLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark may have a drunk for a dad and bum heart, but there's a war on, and all he needs to enlist is half a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain Stark

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I promised myself I wouldn't start writing until I finished one of my current Avenger WIP's. But this plot wouldn't leave me alone, so instead of writing the entire fic, I wrote a prequel. The real story is coming soon as either Tempest or Prisoner's finishes up.
> 
> Quick warning for implication of old-timey racism.

  
  
It was a cold winter night, edging into spring. The air was heavy with fog and felt good on the bruise around Tony Stark’s eye. Didn’t feel so great on the rest of him, though. He closed his thin jacket closer and kept his feet moving forward. Rhodey had offered him his own jacket to keep while they were at the Expo the other day, just before he shipped out. But Tony had never liked charity. Besides, with the war taking up most of the rations, the fabric could be put to use somewhere else.

New York was the city that never slept, but it was late and the streets were hauntingly still as he made his slow way home. He shouldn’t have stayed for drinks, but folks took pity on the little guy. He’d lost the match, but Tony had played the smart fighter: he’d made his opponent work for it.

It was the silence that let him pick out the voices coming from the next street over. The sound of mean laughter, followed by a softer voice. Older, pleading.

Funny how turning away from it never entered his mind. Then again, if Tony “The Mongrel” Stark knew how to run from a fight, he wouldn’t make rent money.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Tony changed direction and cut through the alleyway. He came across the problem on the next street over: an older man was hunched against a brick wall with grocery bag in hand. Two tall thugs were cornering him in, all trouble.

“Please!” the older man’s soft voice was heavily accented. “I have done nothing to you--”

“Don’t think that’s the point, Fritz,” the red headed thug said. “It’s your pals in the Third Reich I have a problem with.”

The old man drew himself up for just a moment. “I am no Nazi--”

“Really? Then what’s with the funny talking?” The redhead snatched the grocery bag, tumbling the old man’s packages over the ground.

But by then Tony had reached the scene. Truth was, he’d already plotted out exactly how the entire fight would go, two steps before getting there. Sliding up  behind the taller of the two punks, Red, he tapped him on the shoulder. When the idiot turned, Tony rabbit-punched him right in the nose. Red yelped and his partner came around to help, but Tony had been expecting it, and barreled headlong into him, knocking them both against the wall. The guy swung. Tony ducked with ease and came up with a return of his own -- a solid body-blow that made the kid wheeze.

Grabbing him by the lapels of his coat, Tony hauled the thug into his friend.

“Get outta here!” he growled, kicking sloppily at the punks when they didn’t move fast enough.

The two bolted, and Tony wiped his nose at them, turning back around.

The old man was knelt down, gathering his packages. One dry bag of noodles had split open in the fight, spilling all over the sidewalk. A bottle had rolled by Tony’s feet. He picked it up, eyebrows raising at the expensive schnapps label. He vaguely remembered it from his mother’s fancy parties.  

“Here,” he said, handing it to the man.

“Thank you,” the man said softly. Yup. That was definitely a German accent.

“Don’t mention it.” Tony looked around, checking for witnesses, then sighed. “Really, don’t.” He never cared about the guff he got for hanging around blacks, but Germans were another thing.

The old man gave a shy, pained smile. He knew how things stood. Then he hesitated, peering closer at Tony.  “Were you hurt? Your eye--”

“Naw.” Tony shook his head. “Didn’t get it from those two -- they couldn’t punch their way out of a wet paper sack.”

The older man looked nervous. “You fight a lot, I take it?”

“I box for a living. This is nothing, pops.” He handed the last of the packages over. “I’m Tony Stark.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I’ve seen the posters in my neighborhood. They call you The Mongrel, yes?”

“That’s me. Half-Italian, half-Irish, all mouth.” He’d hated the nickname -- Rhodey’s pal, Sikes, had come up with it, and Tony had nearly socked him a good one. But after Tony had won his first fight with a man fifty pounds heavier and several inches on him, it stuck.

The old man stood. “And you stand up for German immigrants. You are an unusual man, Mr. Stark, but this is no bad thing.” He held out his hand. “I am Doctor Abraham Erskine.”

“Doctor,” he repeated, remembering old manners, and shook.

Erskine tilted his head. “Come with me to my apartment. I could have a look at that eye, if you wish, and I will cook dinner -- it’s the least I can do for your help tonight.”

Normally Tony wouldn’t have taken up the offer. But the truth was, the apartment had been deathly quiet since Rhodey had shipped out, and Tony wasn’t looking forward to staring at the walls and knowing that he was the failure his old dad always said he was.

“The eye’s fine, but I won’t say no to some of that schnapps.”

 

****

 

Erskine was a decent cook, though no one could compare with the lavish meals he barely remembered as a kid. Despite his joking, he only took sips of schnapps out of politeness -- he had a taste for the sauce, but his dad’s example taught him to go soft.

Besides, he wasn’t a lightweight just in the ring.

Erskine was soft spoken, and polite, but Tony noticed the careful way he watched him. As if Tony was the strange one here. Not him.

“May I ask,” Erskine ventured. “Why you aren’t fighting in the war?”

Tony winced. The guy was forward, but then again it was the same question he saw every day, in every eye out on the street. On the outside, Tony was a little short and scrawny, yeah, but he seemed healthy enough. And all able-bodied young men were enlisting unless they were a deviant or a coward. But now, with the draft, even that didn’t much matter.

“I tried,” he said shortly. “Twice.” Then he reached up to tap one finger over his heart. “I’ve got a bum ticker, I guess. I feel fine -- I can fight obviously, and I don’t get winded unless a match drags on.” He flashed his best Stark grin. “So I don’t let any match drag in the ring. But whenever an army doctor listens to my heart…” He shrugged. “That’s that.”

He expected sympathy. What he didn’t expect was for Erskine to look steady at him. “Yet, you still wish to serve?”

Tony shrugged again. “Everyone’s doing their part. Rhodey -- My best friend’s a black, and they let him enlist even though half those hypocrites wouldn’t spit on him or his kin if they were on fire. He’s willing to go out on the front lines, though.” Despite his resolve not to, Tony took another sip of schnapps. “I plan on trying again at a different recruitment station in a few weeks. Hell, maybe third time's a charm.”

“You are that desperate to kill Nazi’s?” Erskine asked, deceptively mild.

“That a joke?”

“No.”

Tony took a bite, chewed, swallowed. If he were facing an enlistment doctor he’d answer yes, of course, and let them see the want for a good fight in his eyes. “No,” he said truthfully. Maybe it was the alcohol warming his belly that made him say more than he normally would. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to killing people, though I know it’s war. It’ll happen. It’s just… my dad was a drunk, Mr. Erskine. He pissed away the family business, then his life. So, yeah, I’m not the biggest, and I get the wind knocked outta me sometimes -- okay, a lot. But I figure… I can do more with my life than this. Than _he_ did. I’m good at fighting--good at out thinking my opponents, which ain’t no use in a factory. I should be out there helping, you know?”

Tony felt a little winded after his speech. He tried not to talk about his excuse for a father, but he’d been on his mind today. Dad’s failings was none of Erskine’s business, though. Tony set his fork down, ready to rise and excuse himself, but Erskine touched him on the wrist. The older man’s face was calm, but his eyes… they were full of a strange hope.

“What if I told you I could give you that chance to help, Mr. Stark?”

Tony's bad heart gave a hard, painful thump. "You're...not foolin' me?"

In reply, Erskine rose and went to the leather bag Tony had only half noticed before. From it, he withdrew a familiar folder with blank enlistment forms. The type Tony had seen in the recruitment offices.

"As it happens, Mr. Stark, I head a research team for the U.S. Army. I cannot promise you anything, only offer you a chance--"

"I don't care," Tony said, his throat dry. "I'll take it."

 

 


End file.
